You Be My Friend

So, most of you know that my sister lives in Ghana. She is about three months from coming back to the States, and I am counting down like it's my job. My sister and I have been able to keep in pretty close touch with only brief communication lapses due to technology blips or extreme business. We spoke this past Monday. She was upset because she had left her job. She had a lot of strong feelings as to why she was leaving and for the children she had taught. It wasn't an easy decision, but it was best. From what I gathered from our conversations, her boss was a top notch a-hole who didn't like women, or any people for that matter. So, we chat on Monday. There's a lot of, "You're doing the right thing," "I am excited for the next phase of my life," "Can't wait for that welcome home party." I start to get totally amped that her return is in sight -- like I can mark it on this year's calendar. For those of you who have ever seen the Singing Bee with Joey Fatone, "IT'S THE FINAL COUNTDOWN!"

I go on with my day yesterday. About 3 am, I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep. I stumbled out to the couch to see if the Fresh Prince of Bel Air might be on (it was), and and settle in for a night of insomnia. I must have dozed off because around 3 am, I wake up to my cell phone ringing. I notice that it's a Ghanaian phone number, but it's not my sister's number. I thought maybe she was calling from her husband's phone or something and had forgotten what time it was here. I answer the phone to a young gentlemen yelling, "Who is this? Where you call from?" I try to respond, but the caller's accent and the delay on the international call makes it impossible to find out anything. I hang up after about a minute, chalking this all up to a technological snafu. Not 30 seconds later, my phone rings again. Same voice. I hang up. As soon as a flipped my phone shut, thoughts of sheer terror course through my head. I begin to think that maybe something has happened to my sister and her husband. Last week's reports of two American soldiers being found dead in Ghana return to my consciousness. In my mind, something terrible is going on, and I panic. I begin a strict campaign of calling my sister every 15 minutes. 4:15 a.m. 4:30 a.m. 4:45 a.m. No answer. At 5:30 a.m., I know I have to get some sleep as my daughter holds no prisoners when it's time for her to wake up to eat -- any time from 6 to 7:30. I need sleep. I need to find my sister.

I wake up to Claire babbling at 6:30. I go pick her up. I call my sister. No answer. I decide to send an e-mail to both her and her husband, begging them to respond if they can. I basically am melting down. I am a victim of my own imagination. I don't even want to admit the things I was envisioning in my mind at this point. I worry that her ex-boss has done something, or that one of her students has stolen her phone or worse. I get another call from this Ghanaian man asking who I am and who I know in Ghana. I try to communicate without giving any information away that could hurt my sister in some way. He calls again. And again. He tells me he got my number from a text message but won't tell me what the message says. He must not understand me. In between his calls, I call my sister. Still nothing. It's 8 am now. I call my brother as he is feeding his sweet children breakfast. He stays calm, asking me all of the pertinent information. We agree not to call our mother. We don't want to worry her yet. I begin looking into calling the U.S. Embassy in Ghana.

The phone rings again. It is the Ghanaian man again, this time on a clearer connection. He asks me my name. He asks if I am American. Heart beating, I say yes. I am terrified he is about to tell me that he has my sister in his possession or worse yet, he has found her harmed. All I hear is, "I want to be your friend. You be my friend?" Then, I hear his friends gather around the phone to hear me, this American woman, speak. Yes, he wants to be my friend and for me to teach him English. He is a 17 year old living in Kumasi, the same place my sister lives. He was born in London, but was raised in Ghana. His English is thickly veiled in accent, and he cannot understand me. I guess he'd never met a Southern girl before.

Still worried, I call my sister again. Finally, she picks up. Clearly, my many calls have worried her. In unison, we say, "are you ok?" I sobbed. I mean, I let it go big time. She apologized over and over again, sorry to have ignored my earlier calls. Her husband's car had broken down, and they had been consumed with trying to get it working to get their friend back to the city. She assumed we'd talk later, but I kept calling, so she thought something must be wrong. In fact, I kept calling because I thought something must be wrong. All we can figure is that with Ghana's underdeveloped telecommunications network, a text message that I sent her somehow got to this guy's phone. She said it had happened to them before.

My Ghanaian friend has continued to call all. Every time I would pick up the phone, he would beg, "You be my friend." After leaving six of his phone calls unanswered this afternoon, I think he gave up. Oh well, I never was a good pen pal.

Normally, when I totally overreact about something, I get totally embarrassed and apologize a zillion times for being such a silly girl. I talk about what a drama queen I am and pass my overreaction off as being tired or hormonal or just crazy. With this, I was not ashamed. I was just thankful. I have never felt such a rush of relief come over me as when I hear her voice. Ok, maybe when I heard Claire cry for the first time, I was just as relieved, but seriously, they're pretty neck in neck.

Now, more than ever, with her having so little time left in Ghana, I just miss my sister. I miss talking about books with her and griping about our husbands, not that I ever do that...I miss finding items of my clothing missing from my closet, only to find that they somehow snuck into her suitcase and on an airplane to wherever she is going. I miss finding her bubble gum wrappers everywhere and knowing that no matter how messy my car is, hers will always be a lot messier. I miss helping each other pick out outfits and laughing like a child at her when she sings the Chiquita Banana song. I miss giving her things, knowing how much joy she finds in something new to her.

Thank God, my sister is ok. She is coming home.